Foaming and violent as the wave, we echo of beatings taken on shores unknown or known too well. The sea is as young as it is sage, as seasoned in relief as in spite, splitting sand and salt asunder in its desperate grasp for land. Within our breasts beat echoes of land taken kernel by kernel, we know not where, we know not when, we know naught, lest we see.

each inside the other, entwined, boiling as aquamarine, fallible, flawed and two things at once: one new thing. The oldest things, perhaps, the deepest things, perhaps, fail us at the moment of resurgence, for they shift beneath our feet and we are walking on air with our heads in the ocean. The upside will be down, on all sides sea as far as the eye, on every side be- ings of import and export believe. We are

waves and sand and sea and sky, grey and blue and green and black, and one day there will no more of us, (by virtue or valor, the earth will be full of us), and the sky will consume the sea and send it (back and forth) on the wind as judgment and serene volition.

On that day,

may we drink deep of the salt- less nectar of clouds, may we inhabit mist in memoriam of who we were, may we wash mountain peaks and greenify gardens, and revel in the rivulets. Be still with me, and feel the beating of the back-forth, the fullness of a pregnant horizon. Know the frailty of sand and time. Place your hand in mine

About the Author

Chris Wheeler is a poet and storyteller from northwest Indiana. His work includes poetry, liturgy, plays and essays, and has been published in ALTARWORK, Wax Poetry & Art, Reformed Worship, Think Christian and Foundling House, among others. He is staff writer at a leadership development company and writes regularly at www.chriswheelerwrites.com.